Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) by Celia Kennedy Page A

are here! This is seriously crazy.”
    Charlotte, the calmest of us—not overly sarcastic (Marian),
not overly dramatic (Tiziana), not overly uptight (Hillary), and not overly
wound tight (me)—assured me that all contingencies were covered. When I stared
at her belly some more, she chastised me. “You’re making me feel
uncomfortable.”
    I think in an effort to boost Charlotte’s confidence,
Hillary took her hand and pointed out, “She really does glow!”
    “For feck’s sake, she’s not glowing,” Marian scoffed. “My
friends, that is pure, unadulterated fear! If you were about to push someone
the size of a watermelon out of your flange, you’d be in a constant sweat!”
    “That’s just poor taste to bring that up,” I admonished
Marian, while trying to suppress laughter. “Let’s talk about something that
will take Charlotte’s mind off of that.”
    “Impossible. Nothing can take my mind off of that.”
Charlotte squinched her face, admitting her concern.
    “Not even that sexy husband of yours?” Marian tried
Charlotte’s favorite diversion. He was freakishly handsome and
attentive. They were nauseatingly happy. Tiziana appeared to be equally
nauseatingly happy. I was happy for my friends. And a little envious. I hadn’t
heard a peep from Sébastien since dinner a week ago.
    While Charlotte and Tiziana gushed about the merits of love
and marriage, I wondered about the state of Hillary’s relationship with her
boyfriend. She had been dating Charlotte’s brother-in-law, Michael, for the
past year. When we’d talked last, she’d admitted things weren’t going well.
    “Speaking of husbands, where are yours?” I asked Charlotte
and Tiziana.
    “There wasn’t enough room, so they took another car. We’ll
meet them at Stella McCartney’s showroom,” Charlotte answered. Hillary and Marian
turned the conversation to the day’s agenda, deftly changing the subject away
from romance.
    I pulled out the write-ups I had received for today’s shows
and passed them around. “What we are supposed to be seeing today. Stella
McCartney is paying homage to artists’ muses.”
    In no time at all, we were out front Galerie de Valois,
foraying into the masses. It proved not all that challenging. Tucking Charlotte
in the middle to protect her, we let Tiziana and her corporeal bounty part the
sea of people for us. At the last minute, I splintered off from the group,
promising to meet them afterwards in the reception area, and quickly made my
way to my coworkers at L’Oréal.
    The space was so tightly packed, with chairs only four rows
deep on either side of the runway, that it was easy to spot my friends amidst
all the effusive people who flitted about. I waved at them as fashionistas,
fashion journalists, paparazzi, investors, designers, and buyers rubbed elbows
with a wealth of celebrities.
    My chair was a few seats down from our new Executive Vice President,
Daniel Huse, Monsieur Detriche’s boss. I greeted him with a nod. He was the man
I needed to impress if I wanted to climb the corporate ladder. Our working
relationship had been quite successful so far, and that was great news. This
was our first professional outing, if it could be called such. Any anxiety I
felt disappeared when the house lights dimmed. Excitement buzzed throughout the
room.
    I scanned the room, and, to my astonishment, my eyes landed
on Sébastien Langevin. I inhaled sharply and looked away, hoping no one had
heard me. I took a quick second glance to see if my eyes were playing tricks on
me. Nope! He was sitting next to the EVP of Finance for Vogue Hommes
International . He and Anna Wintour, editor-in-chief of American Vogue ,
were happily talking.
    Who is this guy?
    I turned my attention to the models as they strutted down
the runway wearing oversized, plaid, floor-length dresses and wondered what
artist’s muse had inspired this. Some country bumpkin? Stella was
letting me down. Normally riveted by the clothes and theatrics, I